“And nobody else has managed to get a ring on your finger since him. Is that because nobody can live up to his standards?”

“Nobody can live up to my standards.”

“Oh I see. And it’s always you who does the breaking up?”

“Yes. I can’t seem to break that six-month mark.”

“I see.” Charlie nodded his head wisely and pretended to peer at her over invisible glasses, while judicially stroking an invisible beard. “Very interesting. Why don’t we move into my office and discuss this.”

He took her by the hand and led her out to his living room. She lay down flat on the couch, only to find that her psychiatrist was lying on top of her, explaining that he had diagnosed her condition and was ready to administer treatment. Yes, it was considered rather unorthodox in certain circles, but he could assure her it was highly effective.

She just needed to lie very still.

“Say something in Italian to me.”

“Io non vado via.”

“What’s it mean?”

“It means I’m going to break the six-month mark.”

To: Gemma; Cat

From: Lyn

Subject: The Parents

Do you two want to get together some time to discuss the above? Maybe brunch at Bronte? Michael’s mother has got Maddie all day Wed. if you’re free.

I am blown away by this. L.

To: Lyn; Gemma

From: Cat

Subject: The Parents

Fine with me. I’ll come straight from the joys of marriage counseling.

The parents’ little love fest is completely nauseating.

Gemma—have you dumped the locksmith yet?

To: Lyn; Cat

From: Gemma

Subject: The Parents

He’s not the LOCKSMITH—he’s CHARLIE—and I said I would THINK about it and that’s what I’m still doing.

P.S. Wednesday is fine with me for brunch. I think it’s NICE that Mum and Dad are dating. What’s wrong with you two??

Before the day Marcus went flying across Military Road, Gemma had been living with him in his very expensive, very tidy Potts Point flat for close to two years. It never felt like home. She just slept at Marcus’s place every night of the week.

Cat and Lyn came to stay with her the night before the funeral.

Lyn was tanned gold from her interrupted holiday in Europe, with jet-lagged circles under her eyes. She’d been gone for nearly a year and her hair was longer and she was wearing an entire outfit Gemma had never seen before. Even her shoes were different.

“I love those shoes! Are they Italian?” asked Gemma.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Lyn automatically, and then she looked stricken and said, “Or you can borrow them if you want.” Gemma said, “O.K. I will” and clomped around the flat in Lyn’s shoes and waited for her to say, “Walk properly! You’re doing your weird walk, you’re going to ruin them!” but Lyn just smiled in a strained, interested way and Gemma thought, My God, how long are they going to keep this up for?

It made Gemma feel queasy, how nice they were being to her. They were both speaking in strangely proper voices and every now and then she’d catch them staring at her, almost as if they were frightened.

Perhaps she was behaving oddly for someone with a dead fiancé. She probably was, because she felt very odd. Extremely odd.

It was his absence that confused her. How could a tall, strong, definite man like Marcus just not be there anymore? She kept pushing the idea around in her head, trying to make sense of it. Marcus is dead. Marcus is dead. I will never see him again. Marcus is gone. Gone forever. A giant hand had reached down into her world and ripped out a large shred of her reality. It gave her vertigo.

Gemma’s only other experience with death had been Nana Leonard but she’d been such a frail, unassuming presence. There was no gaping hole left when she died, she just gently slipped away, leaving the world pretty much as it had been. But Marcus? Marcus was big, booming, and definite. That’s what she loved about him. You would never say to Marcus, “Are you sure?” because it would be a stupid question. Marcus had opinions and plans and a car and furniture. Marcus had a strong libido and strong political views. He could do one hundred push-ups without breaking a sweat.

Marcus must be very angry about not being there anymore.

“Yeah, mate, I don’t think so.” That’s what he said on the phone when he disagreed with somebody. He wouldn’t agree with dying. “Yeah, mate, I don’t think so,” he’d be saying at the Pearly Gates. “Let me speak to the manager. We’ll straighten this out.”

If Marcus wasn’t there, how could Gemma still be there?

She looked down at her own feet in Lyn’s Italian shoes and felt very, very weird.

“I feel weird,” she said.

“Well, you would,” said Cat.

“It’s perfectly normal,” said Lyn.

And they both looked petrified.

Gemma watched her sisters pinching their bottom lips in exactly the same way and realized she couldn’t possibly confess to them the dreadful, blasphemous thought that had come into her head just before she went running across the road to see if Marcus was O.K. It would distress them. Even if they said, “Oh no, that doesn’t mean anything! Don’t worry about it! It was probably just the shock!” Gemma would know they were lying.

They would think of her differently forever. She had been hoping they could somehow make it right—but they couldn’t. Of course they couldn’t.